I hadn’t spoken to Finn since our fallout on Saturday. I’d asked Moriarty to brief him on the shooting specifically so he and I didn’t have to talk.
Chavez glowered. “Well? Don’t everyone speak at once.”
I started. “Chief, Crabbe is sedated. We’ve been unable to interview him. There’s a guard posted outside his hospital room, in the unlikely event that he recovers enough to attempt an escape. The murder itself is open and shut—we’ve got eyewitnesses to the entire thing. But before Crabbe went into surgery, he left me a note that simply reads ‘I was mistaken.’ Hell of a mistake, if he’s referring to murdering Kent Starbuck.”
Finn added, “We’ve got to be careful not to assume anything. Patrick Crabbe could have been referring to any number of things.”
“Good point, Finn,” Chavez said. “Let’s set aside the note for a moment. Why the hell did he shoot his brother?”
My turn again. “In Friday’s Voice, there was an article naming Kent Starbuck as a person of interest in his mother’s death. Crabbe read the article; he told me as much. He hated his brother. Imagine how he felt once he believed Kent killed their mother?”
“When I find out who the leaker is … if this death is on their hands…”
I continued. “Kent Starbuck is the obvious suspect for Betty’s Starbuck’s homicide. No alibi, the eyewitness at the museum, the strong motive, and the history of violence. We’ve been over all this. But here’s the thing: remember how Betty Starbuck told both Lois Freeman and Larry Bornstein that she was scared of Patrick? He called me at home, late last night. He said he’d found cryptic notes in his mother’s things indicating she was terrified of someone. Based on Freeman and Bornstein’s accounts, that someone was likely Patrick himself.”
“But he didn’t recognize himself as the person his mother wrote about?” Chavez’s frown deepened. “How does Sari Chesney fit into all this?”
We fell silent, no one wanting to be the first to say what we’d all concluded, which was that we’d hit a wall.
“They say silence is golden. ‘They’ have obviously never been in a room full of cops. Your silence is worrying. Usually you’re fighting one another to share information with me.” Chavez stood and began to pace the room. “So why don’t I talk awhile and you all nod, tell me if I’m on the right track. At one point in the past few days, Kent Starbuck was our prime suspect in his mother’s death. Now we like Patrick Crabbe for it instead? And we’re saying he’s gone off the deep end?”
“Maybe,” I said in a low voice.
“Damn it, ‘maybe’ isn’t good enough,” the chief said. “Patrick has an alibi, doesn’t he? He can’t have murdered his mother.”
Finn said, “The problem is that we’ve got no forensics linking Kent or Patrick to the Starbuck murder, but we can make a strong case for either of them being Sari Chesney’s killer. The connection’s there, somehow. We just can’t see it yet.”
“The murders are connected,” Chavez said, frustrated. “That’s yesterday’s news.”
The chief stopped pacing and took his seat. “Get out there, all of you, and come back when you’ve got something more. Gemma, a moment, please?”
I stayed seated. Once the room was cleared, Chavez said, “Where are we on that special assignment I gave you?”
I swallowed. “Making progress. I hope to have a name to you very soon.”
“Good, good. You know I don’t condone violence, but when I get my hands on this jerk’s neck—”
“May I ask you a question?” He looked surprised at the interruption but nodded. “I know you assigned both Finn and me to investigate the leak. Finn thinks it’s me. I thought it was him … but it’s not his style, is it?”
Chavez leaned back in his seat and began to rock. The chair squeaked loudly, and I wished he would stop. “No, Finn’s not the type to undertake covert sabotage of the PD. Neither are you. And make no mistake, that’s exactly what the leak is: sabotage. Finn hasn’t come to me, by the way. To accuse you, I mean. I think you should know that.”
“It’s only a matter of time. He was confident on Saturday … Chief?”
“I know what you want to ask me, Gemma. You think I pitted the two of you against each other. You’re wondering why.”
“Yes. It seems cruel, and you’re not a cruel man.”
“I had to be sure you weren’t the leaker.” Chavez sighed. “The fact of the matter is that you and Finn are two of my best detectives. There’s no one else I’d trust to get the job done. It’s that simple.”
Though in his mind it was simple, the reality was that the chief’s decision might have caused irreparable damage to my partnership with Finn.
“Is there anything else?”
I shook my head and took my leave. In the hall, I once more passed by the photographs of recruits. In the glass, my reflection looked haunted. It was hard to acknowledge that for the first time in my career, I felt disappointed in the chief. I felt let down, and I realized that there is no sound, no telltale rumble in the ground, when an idol falls.
It just happens, and all you are left with is a dry taste in your mouth and the longing to go back to the time before, before you knew.
Chapter Thirty-seven
After what felt like mere minutes at home—enough time to grab dinner, spend a few hours with Grace, and get some much-needed sleep—I was back to work early on Tuesday morning. I left as soon as Clementine awoke, driving down the canyon as the sun rose and the radio promised it would be another glorious spring day in the Rockies.
I ran into Chloe Parker in the women’s locker room, and we spent a few minutes chatting.
As promised, she’d brought me a water bottle from her husband’s bowling alley.
“Thanks, Chloe. This is great.”
She smiled brightly. “Sure, we’ve got dozens. Anytime you want to bowl, let me know and I’ll give you a coupon.”
I had to laugh. “I appreciate that. I think it will be a while before I get around to it, but thanks for the offer. Things really hit the fan yesterday.”
The smile slid from her face. “What a tragedy. How is Patrick doing?”
“He’s in the hospital, under sedation. He’ll be there for a few days, maybe a week. The shooting was awful. Not only does it throw a major wrench into our investigation, it’s just plain sad. First the mother dies, then one brother shoots another,” I said, fiddling with the cap on the water bottle.
Chloe nodded. “Horrible, just horrible. I’ve known Patrick for years. He and my husband go way back. I would never have imagined he was capable of something like this. I know you can’t go into all the details, but do you know what happened?”
“I don’t think we’ll know for sure until he comes to and we can interview him. We think an article in Friday’s edition of The Valley Voice might have triggered Patrick’s actions. Patrick saw that Kent was a person of interest in their mother’s death, and he may have decided to take matters into his own hands.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Chloe gasped. “Patrick’s always been such a sweet, kind soul. This is such a tragedy.”
She glanced at her watch. “Shoot, I’ve got to get to the phones. Gemma, let’s get a drink or lunch soon, okay? We gals have got to stick together.”
I nodded. “I’d like that.”
Finally settled at my desk, I was surprised to see more than a dozen voice messages waiting for me. I listened to the first and then remembered that we had listed my name as the primary contact on the press release asking anyone with information from the Lost Lake area to come forward.
I grabbed a coffee and a stale bagel from a communal bag in the break room and then started in on the messages, wishing I had some cream cheese. Even jelly would have made the dry bread more palatable.
The first three calls were pranks; each referenced seeing the Lost Girls prowling the lake the week of Chesney’s murder. The next eight weren’t helpful, either; I listened half-heartedly to them as I sipped my coffee, occasional
ly pausing and rewinding one to make sure I hadn’t missed something. As I’d thought, they were from misguided people who meant well. An example: a couple hiking on the Haywood trail a few days before witnessed an aggressive mother bear and two cubs. They were certain the bear had killed Chesney.
Uh-huh … killed her without leaving any evidence and then dragged her into the lake.
The last message was the most promising, and I listened to it twice, hopeful we’d finally gotten the break in the case we so desperately needed.
The man said his name was Virgil Salt. His voice was deep, with a hint of a Midwest accent. In his message, he said he’d seen a couple of people having a violent argument at Lost Lake a few weeks prior. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but seeing as there had been a murder, he figured he should report it. Not only did Salt sound rational and serious, he stated that he worked with the Parks and Wildlife Association. The local chapter of the PWA was, in my experience, a solid group of straight-shooting nature lovers with about as much imagination as a roll of quarters.
I checked the time Salt had called and saw it was six this morning. It was now nearly eight, so I dialed the number he’d left. When he didn’t answer, I left a message and asked him to stop by the police department at his earliest convenience. Then I joined Armstrong and Moriarty in the conference room to discuss the cases.
We made small talk, waiting for Finn to join us.
I hoped to hell that Finn was sleeping poorly, racked with guilt over the accusations he’d hurled at me. But when he finally arrived, a few minutes after eight, he looked refreshed and well rested. If anything, there was an extra spring in his step.
He took a seat across from me and studiously avoided eye contact.
“All right, kids, here’s the thing. Chavez sweet-talked the hospital administrator into allowing us to talk to Patrick Crabbe,” Armstrong said. “We interviewed him late last night. Gemma was correct: Crabbe was convinced that Kent Starbuck murdered their mother to get at the inheritance money.”
“You said ‘was.’ Has Crabbe changed his mind?” I asked.
Moriarty nodded. “Yes. Unfortunately, this change of heart happened as he pulled the trigger to release the bullet that ended up in Starbuck’s skull.”
“We know from witnesses that just before Crabbe shot Starbuck, the two of them exchanged words. Crabbe told us that after he accused Starbuck of murdering their mother, Starbuck merely shook his head and said, ‘I loved her, too.’ And just like that, Crabbe knew. He knew Starbuck wasn’t the killer,” Armstrong said. He leaned forward and set his elbows on the table, rubbed at his tired eyes. “But it was too late. He’d gone to the Crimson with the intent to avenge his mother’s death, and his synapses were already firing that gun. Kent Starbuck’s death was a foregone conclusion the minute Patrick Crabbe left his house Monday morning.”
“Did you search Crabbe’s house?”
Armstrong shook his head. “Not yet, but we did a walk-through of Betty Starbuck’s home office again and found the utility bill that Crabbe described to you. The writing on it matches Betty’s handwriting. She was scared of someone, there’s no doubt about it.”
Finn sat back and crossed his arms. “I think this is all bullshit. I think Crabbe killed his mother for her money and then pointed the finger at his brother, steering our attention that direction this whole time. Then he killed his brother. He should do hard time in prison. If he’s insane, he should be locked away at the state mental hospital in Pueblo.”
I stared at Finn. “Crabbe’s got an airtight alibi for the night of Betty Starbuck’s murder. I checked it myself—it’s his clerk. He can’t have killed her.”
Finn finally met my gaze, and his small smile was triumphant. “I spoke with that clerk yesterday at the Gas ’n’ Go. Very helpful. She told me that Crabbe spent most of the night in the back office, with the door shut, emerging every few hours to chat with her and grab a fresh cup of coffee. She can’t be one hundred percent certain he was there from eleven p.m. to seven a.m.”
“She told me he was there. She insisted.” Stunned, I sat back. Something awful occurred to me. “You’re lying. You never talked to her.”
Beside us, I felt Armstrong and Moriarty stiffen and exchange tense glances.
Finn’s face reddened. “I did talk to her. I just probed a little deeper than you, I guess. It was the work of five minutes.”
“Shit.” I pushed back from the table. “Then we’re back to the drawing board. I’m going to get some air.”
I left the room and walked the length of the station, reaching the front door and shoving the push bar with an anger that left me nearly in tears. I was furious at Finn for accusing me of being the leaker and for going behind my back to re-interview a witness. If he’d had any doubts of Patrick Crabbe’s alibi, he should have informed me, and together we would have taken a second look at things.
I set off down the street, not headed anywhere in particular, just certain that if I didn’t keep walking I was going to scream. One thing was for sure: once I wrapped up these cases, I was going straight to Chief Chavez to request a new partner. There was no reason Finn and I had to be paired up.
Lucas Armstrong, Louis Moriarty … either of them would be a pleasant change from Finn. Maybe I could talk to Brody, swap my day shift for nights. Then I could spend my days at home, with the baby.
I reached the end of the street and looked left. Cars, a transit bus, and a few bicyclists sped past me, their movements mere blurs. Life went on, one way or another.
A couple of deep breaths and an eighth of a mile later, I was back at the station, calm and collected.
The front desk officer grabbed my attention with a wave of his hand.
“Monroe. There’s a guy here talking to Nowlin, says he got a call from you to come in. His name is Virgil Salt. They’re in conference room A. He’s been here just a few minutes.”
“Great, thanks.”
I hurried to my desk and grabbed the Sari Chesney file, determined not to let Finn spend much time alone with a potential witness.
* * *
He was a big man, close to seventy, with a white fringe of hair and bright, curious eyes.
“Gemma Monroe, this is Virgil Salt,” Finn said. “Gemma, Mr. Salt was at Lost Lake. That campsite we found, on the far side of the water? He regularly uses it. He wasn’t there the night of Chesney’s murder, but he saw something a few weeks ago. Mr. Salt, why don’t you tell Detective Monroe what you told me.”
“I’d be happy to. Detective, I’m a volunteer with the state’s Parks and Wildlife Association. I’ve been going to Lost Lake for years, decades now, every spring. I spend one or two weekends each month camping and monitoring the beavers, checking for illegal traps,” Salt began. “Well, I was there two weeks ago and I witnessed a strange argument between a man and a woman. Now, I’m not the nosy kind, but the woman, she was a lot smaller than the man. He was huge, a bear of a man. I was worried their argument might get physical, violent. So I sort of stayed close by. Just in case.”
“Could you hear what they were arguing about?” I leaned forward. “Did they know you were there?”
Salt shook his head emphatically. “No to both questions.”
“How can you be sure they didn’t know you were there?” Finn asked. He’d taken a place against the wall, arms crossed, a curious look on his face.
Salt blushed. “Because the argument turned amorous rather quickly and I got out of there at that point.”
“I see.” I thought a moment. “Mr. Salt, there’s nothing unusual about a couple arguing and then making up. Something must have made you wonder if the argument you witnessed had anything to do with the Sari Chesney murder.”
Salt nodded. “Yes. In all my years at Lost Lake, that’s the first time I’ve seen anyone else camp in the area that early in the season.”
“Thank you. That’s an excellent, logical reason, and we appreciate you coming to us with this information. I have a photograp
h that I’d like you to look at, Mr. Salt, then you are free to go.” I opened the Sari Chesney file and withdrew the photograph of Mac Stephens, Sari Chesney, and Ally Chang.
I pointed to Mac Stephens first, then Sari Chesney. “Are these the two people you saw arguing?”
Salt looked confused. “Well, no. No, they aren’t.”
Deflated, I sat back. It must have been another couple he saw. I was disappointed; Salt would have made a strong, compelling witness. I started to put the photograph away when I realized that Salt was still staring at it.
“No. It was him and her, this other girl in the photograph, that were arguing and then having … doing the other thing.”
Forgetting our mutual anger, Finn and I locked eyes then I turned back to Virgil Salt. “Are you telling me that you saw this man and this woman fight and then have sex at Lost Lake two weeks ago? You’re positive it was her, and not this one?”
Salt nodded. “I may be old, but I’m not senile. That girl, the one I saw at the lake, she’s Asian. Looks Japanese maybe. The other girl in this photograph is white, isn’t she? I’ve never seen this one—the white girl—before in my life.”
“You’re absolutely certain?”
He nodded once, twice. He was sure. “Boy oh boy, they could almost be twins, huh?”
Chapter Thirty-eight
“It’s the oldest tale in the book,” Finn said after Virgil Salt had left the conference room. “The best friend and the boyfriend, screwing around behind our girl’s back. Then one or both of them decide to take her out of the picture.”
We momentarily set aside our anger, both excited at a possible break in the case, unable to keep our thoughts from tumbling out.
“It’s a long road from infidelity to murder. You didn’t see Mac and Ally that morning at Lost Lake. They were genuinely worried about Sari. When I told them her body had been found, they were devastated.”
“Guilty consciences. It makes the most sense that Sari was killed the night she went missing, by one of the people she was with. If not them, who?”
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